Hades Memoirs: A Legacy of Madness
by enRAGEd
Summary: Alexander Ashford. The last days of the once-proud patriarch of the great and noble Ashford family, both as a human and the undying abomination he was destined to become. Pre/mid-RE:CV.


**Resident Evil: The Hades Memoirs**

**Alexander Ashford - A Legacy of Madness**

Alexander Ashford was a proud man. His father, Edward, had taught him long ago that there were certain expectations placed upon members of noble houses such as theirs. Not only were they looked to for both inspiration and leadership, but they were also depended on to drive human endeavour at its forefront. Their ancestors had all been physicians and scientists, dating back to the days of the great matriarch, Veronica, who had first etched their name in history. It was up to him, he had been told, to continue the legacy in their stead.

Proud men are easily wounded; in spite of his father's hopes, Alexander had struggled simply to ensure the continuation of his line. On a good day, he would only feel like an abject disappointment.

When it came to his children, Alfred and Alexia, he despaired. They were, at once, the greatest and most terrible thing to have ever happened to him. Through them his family would live on, but so would his failure. When she had been only twenty-five years of age, his beloved wife had perished, leaving him with only a promise to honour her memory. She had bore him no heirs and the vow he had made to her had damned his bloodline. In his desperation, he had turned to science as his predecessors had done, but not for cures or answers.

Cloning technology had been perfected by the Umbrella Corporation years before and, by utilising a still-clandestine technique, he was able to replicate his own genomic structure in order to create a child who would be the saving grace he had longed for. It had been to his immense surprise that fate had bestowed him with twins. Surpassing his expectations, the boy was a genius at an early age; his sister, on the other hand, was a prodigy. Before she had even reached maturity, his daughter had earned an honorary doctorate and taken the position as Head Researcher at the family's laboratory in the Antarctic. She had bettered him.

Though he was arguably her superior at the installation as the Chief Administrator, there was no question whose whims directed the research conducted there. It was true that he looked to her to truly restore glory to his line where he could not, but the fact that she had overshadowed him caused him unbearable frustration. He was the head of the Ashford family and that title should have ensured that his peers afforded him more respect than they did. Instead, he was forced to live and work as part of the company his father had founded as nothing more than a glorified facilitator while his spawn rose to greater heights with each passing day. There was no question that she would have been the favourite of her late grandfather, surpassing even Alexander in his eyes.

His desire to ensure the continuation of his legacy had ended his own part in the glorious Ashford line and begun that of his daughter. That he was considered a laughing stock by comparison to his own child was something that a man of his pride could not bear.

He watched her across the grand table at dinner as they took in a light evening meal. It was one of those rare occasions when the siblings would join him for sustenance, when neither of them were distracted by their individual undertakings, though to him it was simply an opportunity to reflect upon his failures. He was seated in his usual place, at the head of the table, while Alexia sat halfway along. Alfred was at her right hand, as ever, and while he would continually fidget in a manner that betrayed his age, his sister sat regally upright.

They were beautiful children, possessed of his own strikingly fair hair, a blond so light that it was practically silver. Their smooth features gave them both an androgynous air, as though one could be the other quite easily, the differing lengths of their individual platinum manes and their attires the only thing allowing even him to tell them apart. They had greeted him and said nothing more since the start of their audience, and nothing save the noises of silverware and glass being moved stirred the still atmosphere of the dining hall. Alexander had sent his servants away so that he could be alone with them.

"Father?" Alexia said, so softly that he could scarcely hear her speak. In truth, the twins did not usually engage him in conversation and so he was somewhat surprised to hear her attempt to do just that. The concept of his cold and distant children seeking his attention was alien to him, leaving him momentarily dumbstruck.

"What is it, Alexia?" he replied, after a moment. There was silence for the briefest of periods and he wondered if he misheard her. However, she spoke for a second time to his further surprise.

"We have a gift for you, father," she answered, and when he turned his attention back to her he found that she was staring directly at him, fixing him with the glowing sapphires that were her eyes. From the corner of his own vision, he could see an almost identical pair of azure orbs at her shoulder where Alfred was also looking in his direction.

"Is that so?" he asked, curiosity blooming in his mind at the thought of whatever trinket his children had intended for him, "may I see it?"

She turned to her brother, whom Alexander could almost swear had been glaring at him with something he could only describe as jealousy in his bright azure eyes the entire time her attention had been diverted. His young son was quite devoted to his sibling, though he found the infatuation quite one-sided; Alexia always seemed so aloof towards the other child's affection that he could not help but feel a degree of pity for him. Regardless of her disaffection, however, she permitted him to remain at her side always, which was more than she tolerated from her father.

"Take the gift, Alfred," she instructed, her tone authoritative in spite of the fact that her brother's loyalty was absolute. Obediently, the blond stood up from his chair before neatly placing it back under the table. With that, he crouched down and withdrew something from the floor beneath the seat. The oldest occupant of the room realised that it was a carved, wooden jewellery box with gilded edges once its bearer had returned to a standing position.

He noted that his daughter had returned to staring directly ahead as she continued to eat, disregarding him even as her faithful servant brought him the offering she had wished to bestow him with. That she was ignoring him grated on his sensibilities; she was a spoiled girl who felt she owed nothing even to the man who had given her life. All the same, he was intrigued to learn what lay within the exquisitely shaped confines of the small chest and so awaited its arrival eagerly, setting his cutlery to the side and sipping from his glass of finely matured red wine as he did so. The boy set the object down beside his drink, allowing him to examine it before returning to his sister's side.

It was a peculiar objet d'art, no larger than his dinner plate and half as tall as his glass, formed from lacquered wood that had been chiselled and then inlaid with gold piping. On its upper surface were three pairs of stylised letter "A", evidently intended to denote each of the family members gathered at the table. Also on its top were three jewels, each the size of an eye, an emerald, a ruby and a sapphire. The clasp that restrained its lid was decorated with a similar configuration of precious stones, but these were smaller, only the size of the nail on his smallest finger.

The colours were familiar to him. Alfred was an exceptional craftsman and had once created trinkets for each of them; there was an earring set with an emerald for him, a choker studded with a ruby for Alexia, and a ring that held a sapphire for the boy himself. He wondered what new ornament his son had made for him.

"May I open it?" he asked, wondering if there was some form of trick to releasing the lock or if the box itself was the gift. It was an exquisite item on its own and he did not wish to seem ungrateful by being disappointed if it was empty. His own father had raised him to demonstrate more gentlemanly conduct than he had been able to instil in his own offspring.

"The gift is inside," she told him, eyes continuing to stare fixedly away as she lifted the tumbler of water she was drinking along with her meal to her lips. Her brother sat down beside her once again, but she did not adjust her rigid posture in order to look at him. He suspected that there was an unspoken understanding between them, however.

Upon lifting the catch, he found that it was lined with red velvet cushioning, intended to cradle the ornate fabrication that was kept within. To all intents and purposes, it resembled a dragonfly, though its body was fashioned from gold and inlaid with small emeralds while its wings had been delicately cut from thin slivers of crystal. It was a stunning work, though it made him question his children's motives, both for presenting him with the item and for its inspiration.

"An impressive work, Alfred," he acknowledged, though his son remained silent in the face of his praise, "thank you both for your generosity, though I must ask what compelled you to be so considerate. And why a dragonfly, I wonder?"

"Alfred made ornaments for the both of us as well," Alexia informed him, "mine was an ant made of silver and rubies; his own was like mine but the jewels were sapphires."

"Ants?" he queried, furrowing his brow as he drank from his glass once again. At least she had answered his first question; the boy rarely made an item for himself and his sister without also creating one for his father. He imagined it was his way of acknowledging that he was their father and, more importantly, an Ashford just as they were. That much led him to believe that at least one of them afforded him some manner of respect.

"One day I shall be a Queen, father, and the human race shall be my drones," she said by way of explanation, her tone becoming strong and imperious in a manner that belied her petite frame and delicate features, "Alfred shall be their leader, for he is most worthy and serves me best. Together we shall fashion the world into a hive, directing the efforts of our servants toward the restoration of the glorious Ashford line until, at last, true immortality is within our grasp. In this way we shall be ants."

"And the dragonfly?" he pressed, more eager to learn his own part in his daughter's idle imaginings than to hear her continue her childish whimsy. While he hoped more than anything that she would indeed become a woman of utmost standing and believed in her abilities to do just that, he was under no illusions that, like any child, Alexia spent the majority of her time entertaining infantile fantasy rather than pursuing a realistic aim.

"When they work together ants are capable of incredible feats," she recounted, her solemn tone beginning to somewhat test his patience when she would not answer his question immediately, "I am sure humanity will grow to enjoy its role as my servants. I will give them tasks to perform and they shall overcome, and be pleased when I notice. Alfred and I keep ants; we once gave them a dragonfly to devour. We plucked its wings, of course, because how would our ants kill it with them still attached."

His features contorted into a frown as she spoke, searching for an explanation for her cryptic response. He was unsure whether she had intended the gift and the accompanying tale simply to frighten him for her amusement. If that was indeed the case then she had wasted her breath; he felt no fear, rather he was rapidly becoming impatient with her insolence. They were both of the same glorious family and he could not comprehend why she had seemed to believe terrorising him was such a simple matter. He chose simply to glare at her as she finished speaking, frustrated by the fact that she was still ignoring him.

Electing not to waste any more of his time after the indignity she had subjected him to, he reached for his glass in order to drain it, only to pause when he noticed that the surface of his hand was peculiarly uneven. Frowning and with his momentary thirst forgotten, he retracted his arm and examined the unsightly area closer to his face. There were mounds growing beneath his skin, he realised, and though he recoiled in disgust from the sight, he could not turn his eyes away. All thoughts of his children and their gift fleeing from him in light of this new and horrifying development, he brought his fingers to the afflicted patch and brushed them gently over it.

He barely stifled a scream as the lumps burst under his touch, his eyes widening as dozens upon dozens of small, black insects wriggled free of their fleshy nest and began to crawl along his arms. Beneath his regal attire, he felt a thousand more of the protrusions swell and rupture, their spawn racing across every part of him, making him twitch and quiver. Opening his mouth to cry for aid, he was only able to retch as a tide of the creatures soared out from his throat, over his tongue and onto his face. His nostrils flared and then they too were filled with the scuttling abominations. When he went blind and began to feel them pressing out from behind his eyelids, he rose clumsily from his chair and promptly tripped over his own feet, crashing to the floor with the horde that had invaded his body swarming over him.

His chest was unbearably tight; the mass in his windpipe was slowly asphyxiating him and would soon choke the very life from him. His sight returned for the briefest of moments, and in that time he saw Alexia standing over him, her face emotionless.

"I have plucked your wings, father," she told him, though he could barely hear her over the thunder of his blood in his veins.

As he fell into unconsciousness, his last thought was of the harsh glare of his daughter's cobalt eyes and how coldly she looked upon him.

-----x-----x-----x-----x-----x-----

When he awoke it was to the numbing chill of the Antarctic climate. That much was not uncommon due to the location of his home, but this was different. The temperature pinched his skin and he was concerned that he could not feel himself shivering; he knew that to be an ill omen. When he tried to move he found that he could not, though he was too groggy to discern the reason why. His head lolled to the side, his eyes rolling open to reveal images that were muddled and confusing inside his mind. There were noises also, ones that he felt he should recognise. At last, he heard a voice.

"Alexia?" he croaked, his throat hoarse and tight from the lack of moisture in the frozen chamber.

"Awake at last, father," the young woman observed, her smooth face swimming into focus above his. Her silken hair was tied back behind her head and the cool air of the room gave her porcelain cheeks a faint blush, making her seem almost like her brother. Unable to recall how to construct a coherent sentence, he ran his tongue over his lips surreptitiously and waited for words to form.

"The ants..." he responded after a few seconds, and though her expression did not change there was incomprehension in her eyes, as though she did not remember what it was that he was referring to. Eventually, however, she nodded slightly to show that she understood.

"Hallucinations are a side-effect of the poison," she told him simply, her answer simply leaving him with more questions.

"What have you done to me, Alexia?" he asked her, trying to lift his hands but finding them latched to the table with frosted leather straps, along with his feet, midsection and head.

His breath turned to vapour in the air, as did hers, but he could feel a cold gnawing at his innards that he had never felt before even in the bitter climes beyond the walls of the research complex. His eyelashes were heavy with ice, tinting his vision white, while his fingertips seemed unable to feel the metal gurney he had been lashed to, though he scratched against its horizontal surface until his nails were chipped and bleeding. He noticed that he was naked aside from a pair of flannel shorts, the kind that were used to preserve the dignity of the installation's test subjects. The garment alone made his heart sink.

"I need you, father, now more than ever before," his daughter explained, vanishing from his side and leaving him for a moment to writhe in his personal hell. It had been said that the greatest sinners were condemned to the lowest circles of the netherworld where they were frozen in enormous caskets formed from ice; he wondered if he had been unfortunate enough to suffer such a fate.

When she returned, she was clutching a slate tablet on which she had written a complex series of figures and equations in her dainty, precise script. Alexander had never been the genius that his own father had hoped for; it had never been his destiny to perceive the deeper meanings of the texts he had been given and rewrite them for the good of all mankind. That was the greater purpose that he had hoped Alexia would find for herself and, in doing so, restore glory to their family name. By teaching him to understand those texts, however, Edward Ashford had given his son a gift that he had never been more grateful for than now.

As his hazy vision took in the list of symbols, he realised that the synthesis was a work of utter perfection.

"You've done it!" he exclaimed, his predicament forgotten as he was gripped by a sudden fervour and the realisation that his spawn had vastly surpassed his every expectation of her abilities, "you've perfected the Tyrant virus! Our name will be immortal!"

"I will be immortal," she told him, the words measured and powerful as though she had spoken an absolute truth of which she had utter conviction, "this virus has been based upon the genetic code of the Ashford family and it will give me power like no other. I have called it "Veronica", to honour our most noble ancestor. But it is yet untested..."

She fell silent, staring at him as though she need not say more, and it was then that he understood the reason for the foul turn of events that had befallen him. His daughter knew that her genius could not be squandered as a test subject if the imperfect virus failed to bond with her genetic structure. By that same merit, she required Alfred, her eternally loyal servant, to remain by her side and ensure her safety while she continued to conduct her research. Whether he gave his consent or not, she intended to use him as the first guinea pig.

It had been her mistake to show him the fruits of her labours. He knew that the mutagen she had created could not fail; it would be he who would live eternally, the sole beneficiary of her endeavours.

"Use me as your subject, Alexia," he insisted, his voice that of a condemned man resigned to his fate, "in this I may elevate you and our family to heights I never dreamed that I could. I only ask that you remember me, as your father and as an Ashford whose sacrifice restored the glory of our line."

"Thank you," she said flatly, apparently satisfied with the blessing he had given her research as she reached to a tray that was out of his sight and lifted a scalpel into his line of vision between her slender, gloved fingers.

In spite of his confidence in her abilities, he was still aware that the procedure would be torturous and so he braced himself for what would surely be agony. He soon learned that his apprehensions were absolutely correct. She seemed almost as though she would relish the opportunity to make him suffer as, wordlessly, she plunged the bladed implement into his chest. Wisps of steam curled from the blood that flowed across his skin as it came into contact with the frigid air and his daughter began to smile as he screamed.

In the days to come and as the experiments continued, she remained silent; he was making quite enough noise for the both of them, after all.

-----x-----x-----x-----x-----x-----

Nosferatu felt a chill run through it, but it was not the cold that it had come to know during the time of its long imprisonment; it was different. The sensation had jarred it into wakefulness, something else that it was not familiar with, though at first it seemed that nothing had changed. The blindfold that hid its violated eye sockets remained in place, as did the bonds restraining its arms at its back, and the ever-present haft of the halberd was still locked across its chest. Casting around for sense within its disordered mind, it felt more than it understood the reason for its disquiet; it was the icy touch of death that it could feel, but the demise was not its own.

An agony gripped its heart, the exposed muscle that throbbed and bled within the hollow that was its chest, as though a shard of ice had impaled it. That pain was not familiar either and made it long for the dull ache of decades that it had always felt in days past. There was a thought that, as a monster, it did not understand, but which the man buried deep inside seemed to recognise; it was a thought that twisted the frosted blade within its core.

"Alfred is dead."

Though it would have been unable to explain why it did so, it threw back its head and bellowed, the noise escaping its decayed lips one of pure, unadulterated anguish. Though nothing had been of consequence to Nosferatu since it had first come into being, the painful emotion welling within it was suddenly of the utmost importance. As it cried out, its sorrow turned to rage and the ice turned to fire within its veins. Roaring as it rose to its feet, shaking loose the halberd and sending it clattering to the floor, it staggered out of its cell. Though it was as incapable of reason as it was of sight, it knew in its blood that something had to be done to quell its agony.

Its legs had atrophied over the ages that it had been ignorant of time's passing but they had not forgotten movement. As it stumbled, it felt strength anew return to its muscles and joints, fuelled both by its fury and its monster's blood. On its journey, it passed through areas of warmth and though it had been so long since it had felt any form of physical comfort, it continued to move onwards in search of that which had caused its suffering. There were others, as numb to warmth as Nosferatu itself was, who meandered aimlessly looking for sustenance but were as blind to the beast as it was to them. Ignoring them in kind, it continued its pursuit.

Before long, the cold intensified and it was assaulted by a howling gale, the force of it buffeting and rocking it on its unsteady feet. Though it was sightless, it could tell that it had stepped out into the great wasteland beyond the walls of its prison. Somewhere above it felt the presence of two figures and knew with a certainty that these were the ones it had been searching for. There was a pathway leading towards them and, slowly but surely, it began to climb, its feet leaden with their disuse as it mounted the stairway and struggled upwards.

It heard voices above and although it could not comprehend the words that they spoke, it knew that they were the creatures that had awoken it. The voices belonged to a boy and a girl, and for the briefest of moments Nosferatu had fleeting memories of a boy and girl. These memories meant nothing, however, and still it staggered onwards. Over the years it had grown new arms to replace the ones that had been shackled to its back. As it reached the highest point, it heard its quarry's hope turn to fear as they saw it and lashed out with its mighty limb, striking the male child with a blow that smashed him over the edge of the high place and into the white oblivion.

The other cried out, but Nosferatu was relentless. Roaring aloud, it convulsed as appendages sprouted like thick stalks from its flesh, swiping through the air in a bid to destroy the female. When it could find nothing, it realised that its opponent had fled, but before it could begin the chase there was a loud crack from somewhere nearby and a new surge of agony washed through it. This pain was intense, physical and, most importantly, familiar. The stab in its heart became a lasting anguish, warm blood oozing along the length of its torso, cooling upon its abdomen and soaking the cloth that it wore around its legs.

Wheeling around in search of the lost adversary, it was struck again in the shoulder, roaring as muscle tore and bone shattered. There was a third crack, but this time there was no pain. Echoes reverberated across the high place, telling Nosferatu that its prey's attack had missed. Its heart throbbed, blood pounding through its veins with such force that its throat ruptured at the sides and sprayed forth its highly toxic life fluid. Had it been capable of smiling then it would most likely have done so upon hearing its enemy begin to retch.

Another crack rang out, a desperate and poorly aimed attack that again produced no result. It could tell that it was close to finding the female and continued to lurch towards her. An arm brushed something solid, unable to strike it, and Nosferatu immediately yawed in the direction of its retreating quarry. Now that it was closer, it could hear the workings of something mechanical, noises that it recognised only on a level that was buried too deeply to concern it. There was a rattle and then a clink. It lashed out with its searching limb and swatted the device from her hands, hearing a clatter as it struck the floor.

It heard a desperate cry and knew that it could soon sate its pain by destroying her also. The appendages continued to seek her and yet found nothing, leaving the monster dismayed. It bellowed again, its frustration overwhelming it for the briefest of moments, and then fell silent. Over the howl of the wind, it heard footsteps unbearably close to its position.

"I've got you now!" its opponent exclaimed, and before it could act a cold dagger transfixed its heart. The anguish from before had returned, though in this case it was the chill of its own death that had descended.

Emitting a hoarse death rattle, Nosferatu slumped backwards into the snow and ice that was caking the surface of the high place, unable to move. As he died a death that had begun when he had first become the monster he now was, Alexander Ashford's part in the legacy of his family came to an end, once and for all.

-----x-----x-----x-----x-----x-----


End file.
